


Nothing to be Fearful Of

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Dracula (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst, BBC references, Dracula adores you, Dracula is a sweetheart, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Job stress, Romance, anxiety attack, show pitch, worried about disappointing people, worried about not being good enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22895125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: Dracula helps you when you have an anxiety attack.
Relationships: Dracula/Reader
Comments: 27
Kudos: 42





	Nothing to be Fearful Of

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Multifandomfanfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Multifandomfanfics/gifts).



> Really hope you like this @Multifandomfanfics. Thanks for all your support. :) 
> 
> Obviously I hope that other people like it as well. ;) Let me know. :)

Dracula pops around to your apartment one Tuesday night. He loves it there and _always_ insists that it is _much_ more interesting than his _own_ place-what with all the little goodies that you have around that speak so much of your character and _always_ reveal new things to him [it is a different way of finding things out about you rather than sipping at your blood, which he hasn’t done so _far_ in your relationship.] He _loves_ the fact that you have invited him in and even _welcomed_ him. You seem to take delight in the pleasure he gets as well and _grin_ whenever you should return to the room to find him studying or poking through your stuff. You seem to understand that he means no harm by the thing and is just _curious_ about you. 

But _that_ night, when you return from your bedroom, holding a sheaf of papers in your hand, you can only muster up a _small_ smile at where he is perusing the silver bejewelled trinket boxes on top of the mantelpiece, large hands and long fingernails being _extraordinarily_ careful as he does such a thing. 

“Are you tired?” he asks, having taken in your gaze and abandoning the trinket boxes. “I don’t mind reading to you if you are?” he smiles at you a little flirtatiously, his mind going back to all the times when he has sat by your bed and read to you as you watched him from beneath the cover of your duvet, your eyes trying to hold on to every word and not slip shut, your fingers loosening their grip on the bed covers and giving him a tempting peek at whatever nightwear you would happen to be wearing-

_“No,”_ you say abruptly, bringing him out of the nice thought that he’d been having and he realizes suddenly that you look tense and on edge about something. You seem to read into his expression and rake a hand through your hair. “Sorry,” you tell him, “It’s just I’ve got _this”_ -you wave the papers at him-“To go through before tomorrow.”

“For the pitch?” You _have_ mentioned that you will be pitching a drama to the BBC to him on _more_ than one occasion and tomorrow’s date is circled in a vivid red upon every calendar that you own and there is a note hanging down from the coffee table about it _and_ in your diary. He had found it _all_ pretty endearing at the time, but realizes now that you’re actually pretty stressed out about the thing. 

You look _relieved,_ however, that he has remembered it. _“Yes,”_ you murmur, “So I'm sorry but I might not be very good company tonight,” you are hasty, _barely_ looking at him. 

His eyes soften though at the fact that you might _actually_ be getting worked up because you are worried about his opinion and how your action that night might affect your friendship with him. “I don’t mind staying if you think _I_ could be of help?” Truthfully even if he _couldn't_ be of any use he’d be happy just to watch you and to be in your space, whilst you worked. 

Some of the tension seems to leave you at his words. “That might be good,” you confess, and you go and sit on the settee beside one another. You can hear the murmuring of the television from the next apartment through the wall. Dracula notices that though you had seemed to be settled for a minute the tension jumps back into your shoulders, holding them up, as you rifle through what you have prepared. 

“Maybe you could practice performing it in _front_ of me?” he suggests, thinking that, _that_ might help to relieve some of your tension and he shifts closer and attempts to massage your shoulder in order to try and do such a thing as well. 

You wriggle out of his grip quickly and _stand,_ apparently restless. _“Um”_ \- you swallow for a moment, your mouth feeling dry and give yourself a second to cool down from the blush that had appeared on your face at his touch, before you turn to face him. He tries to bury the smirk that had risen upon his face at what he thinks was your attempt to _not_ be distracted by him-really you feel like a coiled spring and like you need to keep moving. “So yeah”- you get yourself together and flourish the papers, before you go properly into your pitch. 

It is fine for a while-you lose your voice for a moment due to there being a bit of tightness in your throat, but manage to regain it soon enough and seem to grow _more_ confident, pacing back and for and _owning_ the space that you’re in. Dracula _enjoys_ listening to you and seeing the way that your face _pinkens_ every time you should come back to the centre and share a moment of prolonged eye contact with him. He starts loosening up himself, _leaning_ back into the settee and becoming engrossed in the idea of what you are selling him-a drama about a vampire’s perspective and _naturally_ he eggs you on and wants you to be successful with this idea. But then your voice starts to fade and your heart rate increases-it had _already_ been pattering a little more quickly than normal, but it speeds up all the _more_ and he thinks that it is just _excitement_ from having a bit of banter with him about your work or even _frustration_ with yourself about losing your voice again-but it doesn’t settle down after a few moments and if anything it just gets louder and louder and seems to rob you of both your breath and voice as it does such a thing. Dracula opens the eyes that he’d half-shut without even _realizing_ that he’d done so, as he’d started to get swept away in your plan again and fixes his gaze on you fully. You make a grasping gesture at your throat and he half gets to his feet. You make a noise like he _knows_ your printer makes whenever there is a paper jam-you’d gotten frustrated when it had done such a thing the other day-as if your throat is blocked or unable to form a coherent word and something that isn’t just a _stream_ of noise. You break eye contact with him and stare down in a sort of _horror_ at the wad of papers in your now trembling hand. It is not just your hand either-your _entire_ body is shaking like tremors that have rippled out from the epicentre of an earthquake. Dracula feels anxious and unsure of what to do at the sight of one of his most favourite people in the world going through such a thing. Your heart continues to chunter dramatically in his ears and he senses that even _you_ are able to hear it in your own for once and in a way that is not normal. You look up at him, breathing still grating and he has heard _healthier_ noises coming from his soon-to-be victims. There is a sheen of sweat on your forehead. A thin strip of your hair sticks to it. He wonders if he should tell you to sit down, but the idea leaves him in an instant when you choke, “Drac-I-I can’t do it-I don’t think I can do tomorrow.” He rises to more of his full height automatically, his lips slightly parted, unsure _why_ you would think such a thing, but wanting to rescue you from that thought all the same. The papers topple out of your grasp and though your hand attempts to stop their descent it is too late and the papers spread everywhere upon the floor. You make a keening noise and bend down, your hand going to your stomach and then to your heart, as if it is suddenly painful to you. 

“Oh God,” you mutter.   
_Dracula,_ feeling _most_ alarmed for you, rushes to be by your side.  
“Get away from me!” You flinch into a crouching position and Dracula only feels hurt for a mere _moment,_ before he realizes that he had startled you. 

“Oh-Oh my darling,” he laughs almost in relief that, that is _just_ the case and crouches down as well, attempting to take you into his arms, black hair flopping over his forehead and brown eyes filled with compassion for you. “It is all right. I’ve got you. You are all right.” You bat at his chest and _realizing_ that you might be feeling a little suffocated he still holds on to you with one hand, but lets go of you with the other. _Slowly,_ and because your heart is still racing and he isn’t sure what to do for the best he guides you gently up, but you stumble a little because of the light-headedness that you are feeling and grasp onto his dark shirt and struggle to breathe all the more- _wheezing_ and it is painful for him to listen to. If his _own_ heart had been working then it would have been racing and he is afraid that your delicate human heart will give up on itself if you push it all that much. He does _not_ want to lose you. “It’s all right. It’s all right. I’ve got you.” You nod to show that you have heard him, but your eyes are still wide and afraid about something and he _wishes_ that he could know exactly what it is, so that he could tell you that there is nothing to be fearful of. He takes you over to the settee and sits you carefully down on the edge of it, before he moves the coffee table to give you more space and puts the unhelpful note that you have stuck there about tomorrow’s pitch inside his pocket. You look worriedly at the mess you have made with all the papers and he can see that you are working yourself up about it, so he picks them up carefully, one by one and makes _sure_ to put them in the right order-thankfully you have numbered them, which saves him from having to put the flow of sentences from one page to another together-before he deposits them in a pile on the corner of the removed coffee table. “All neat. You _see?”_ Nodding you grip on to your knees and splutter for breath. He fetches some water, but you wave it away from you, so he puts it on the side table by the settee instead, hoping that you will take a sip of it soon and crouches in front of you.   
“Is this okay? Am I all right like this?” He does _not_ want to be right in front of you if you should want more room. You nod jerkily and when your eyes catch against one another’s he realizes that you are crying. _“F/N,”_ he tries to soothe, brushing a finger from the point of your knee down a little of your leg. “It is all right. Just take a moment to breathe my darling.” 

“I-I-I _can’t”-_ you sound panicked now. 

He shakes his head, _begging_ you not to speak when it is difficult enough for you to breathe normally. “You do not have to explain anything for a moment”-

“No,” you try to correct him, “I-I feel like I'm going to die”-

“You are _not_ going to die,” Dracula’s face grows more serious at hearing such words from you, “Apart from the demons in your head I am the _only_ predator inside this room at the moment and I am _not_ going to harm you. I can promise you such a thing,” he tries to lighten the atmosphere a little and not reveal _too_ much of how scared you are making him feel because he knows that, that might only make your condition worse. His attempt to make you laugh works to a point, however, because your breathing becomes a splutter, but _still_ the tears roll down your face. “I am going to take your hand with mine now,” he communicates with you clearly, before he grasps at your hand firmly and then gently. “My darling you are so _cold!”_ he cannot stop himself from exclaiming. Your hand is clammy too. 

“I _told_ you,” you worry all the more, “I'm going to die and then I'm not going to be able to go tomorrow and even if I _do_ go then it won’t work and this is the first big chance I’ve gotten and will maybe be my _only_ chance and if I die then you won’t be able to see me any more and”-

_“Shh._ Breathe, breathe. I will visit your grave if you tell me where you’ll be,” he reassures you quietly and _again_ you release a sort of spluttering laugh in spite of yourself at his words, “But that is _not_ going to happen. Look at me,” he commands when he notices that you are staring off into the distance and he steers your head gently in his direction by placing a roughened hand upon your cheek, before he lets go of you. “You are _not_ going to die and you are _not_ letting anyone down. You have _not_ disappointed me or anyone else and you will _not_ do such a thing. If you feel like you have then the problem is with _those_ people alone. You are a wonderful human being and I am _not_ going to let anything bad happen to you tonight or on any other one. If you are _not_ confident in your pitch tomorrow then there is _still_ plenty of time for you to change it before then and I will help you in any way that I can. I am the _king_ of adaptation, remember?” He smiles toothily for a fleeting moment. “One night is _more_ than enough time.” Seeing that you are beginning to calm down he strokes at your hand gently. Your eyes are fixed on him and the pace of your heart is more of a run and less of a sprint now, thank goodness. “It was plenty of time for me to fall in love with you”-your eyes widen a little at his confession-“And it will be plenty of time for you to do this. You will be fine my darling. You will be _fine._ You are _safe,”_ he assures you. 

You begin to regulate your breathing better. “I’ve found that short, slower breaths help more than deep ones.” You manage a bit of a smile for him when you are able to, _and,_ feeling better himself he is confident enough to move to sit beside you on the settee, tucking an arm around you and holding you close when you lean into his chest. He strokes at your shoulder instead of your hand and you seem to listen _together_ as your heart rate slowly calms its pace. “I'm sorry,” you finally murmur and your pulse spikes for what he hopes will be the _final_ time that night. 

“You have _nothing_ to apologize for. It has happened _previously?”_ You nod against him now and his grip tightens upon you protectively. He’d thought as much from your comment about how you’ve found that short breaths work more for you than deep ones. He strokes at the tips of your hair and you are both silent for a moment. 

You pull away from him with a bit of a moan. “It feels like my head is on fire,” you complain. He tangles your hand with his and pecks you on the forehead. Your cheeks glow for a pleasanter reason. _“You-?”_

He smiles a little, revealing his blunted fangs and _knowing_ what you are getting at, but wanting to make you wait for a moment. “And tonight it happened because you were stressed out about the pitch?” he is careful, _not_ wanting you to get anxious all over again. 

“I still _am,”_ you remark, but you say the thing with a bit of a yawn that serves to reassure him that the worst of this is over. 

“It is all right though,” he says, as you push more heavily against him.

“If I lose my voice”-

“Then you will get through it like you did the _first_ time tonight and have some water on stand by.” At the reminder of such a thing he hands the glass that he had prepared for you earlier now and you sip at it a little, your fingers making a mark on the moisture of the glass, before he returns it to the side table. You snuggle into him. “You _were_ very captivating once you got more into it,” he reassures you, as you rest against his chest, “You just have to show them that passion and then they will not be able to refuse. I know _I_ couldn't anyway.” You squeeze at his middle a bit and he _knows_ that what you had asked him earlier is back on your mind again. “Of _course_ I love you,” he murmurs earnestly. “How could I _not?”_ he asks. _“You_ have let me into this treasure trove of wonders, into _your_ life, and accepted who I am without being afraid of me. You are the person who has an anxiety attack over something that is _already_ set in stone, and that is your _success,_ my darling, rather than the fact that you’ve got a vampire in your home. You do not see me in that way, as someone who could harm you. You only see all the _good_ things that we can have. I love you for that. When you are suffering, in the future though, you _must_ tell me instead of letting it build up inside you like you have done tonight, even _if_ you wake me up when I am sleeping in the day. I do _not_ want you to suffer alone. I do not _ever_ want that.” You do not reply. _“F/N,_ can you hear me?” You make an incoherent sound against his chest now and he worries for a moment that he is suffocating you, but when he loosens his grip on your arm you slip down his chest and come to a stop on his lap. You are sleeping and he feels _bemused_ by the thing. “Only _you_ could fall asleep when I am being emotional with you for a change,” he grumbles. He brushes back the hair from your forehead and looks at you fondly. “Sleep well, my darling, you deserve it. You do not need to worry about tomorrow. All the work has already been done by you, my angel.” _Then,_ whilst he listens to the softer melody of your pulse and with the warm weight of you upon his lap, Dracula allows himself to fall asleep at the same time as _you_ for a change.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. :3


End file.
